Corpse in Waiting by Margaret Duffy Page A

worse?’
    â€˜Not at all, but you might look up the name Alexandra Nightingale in records for me.’
    Shortly afterwards I received a phone call from the estate agency repeating the news that a higher offer, above the original asking price and surely emanating from Alexandra, had been made. I reminded them that my offer had already been accepted but was told that it was not legally binding and the solicitors representing the owner had made no final decision. Other prospective buyers had looked at the property. I immediately put in an offer of twenty thousand pounds over the original price.
    We had just checked into an hotel. Patrick, who was unpacking clothes and tossing them on to the bed, glanced up as I finished the call but made no comment.
    â€˜This is about more than just a house,’ I observed quietly.
    He still said nothing.
    â€˜After I’d taken you to the station I went to see Alexandra at her hotel,’ I went on to say. ‘She admitted that she’d obtained my mobile number from your phone, which you’d left on the table in a café when you went to the loo. She’s been complaining to any number of friends about my wanting to buy what she regards as her house, including her ex, one Alan Kilmartin. She seemed quite ready to drop him in it.’
    â€˜You should have let me talk to her. I said I would.’
    â€˜I saw her with a man just outside the hotel entrance. She was very angry, upset really. He was of medium height, dark, ugly and wearing a single but quite large, gold earring. He looked distinctly snaky. Alexandra told me that he was an employee and was looking for a commercial property for her. I’m not too sure that was the truth.’
    â€˜And your point in all this?’
    â€˜I asked her what sort of agency she had and she told me it was to do with domestic staff, home helps, nannies and so forth. When—’
    Patrick butted in with, ‘It seems it’s a perfectly innocent business then.’
    â€˜When you have that kind of agency you build up a huge client base. If she shifts down to Bath she’ll have to start all over again, from scratch.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜Then she told me that you were a fine man. She likes fine men, she said. But they turn out to be quite ordinary after she’s stripped them off, layer by layer, something that she’s discovered she’s good at. But I was assured I’d get you back – eventually.’
    â€˜Ingrid, she was just winding you up.’
    â€˜That’s exactly what took place, what she said, practically word for word, no bias on my part, no bitching. I’ve edited out the superior smirks and the odd drops of spit. As I said the other day, it seems to me that one of your layers has gone already. I think the stripper she’s using is called infatuation.’
    Patrick flopped down on the bed. ‘Look, this is a real distraction from the job.’
    â€˜I’m aware of that. Would you rather I went home?’
    He looked at me, alarm writ large as though if I did I would head straight off to see a solicitor. ‘No. I didn’t mean it like that.’
    I opened my travel bag and started to unpack. ‘OK.’
    â€˜We’re a great team,’ Patrick said.
    â€˜I know. We’d better get on with the job then.’
    â€˜Look, I am not having an affair with this woman.’
    â€˜Fine,’ I replied, giving him one his own shark’s smiles.
    As we knew already, Martino Capelli had run his crime empire from his home, a flat in Romford, before being sent to prison and this was, according to criminal records, the last known address of Irma Burnside. A cross reference to information about him listed any number of others known to have worked for, consorted with, or be related to him, one of the names in the latter category being that of his cousin, the late but not remotely lamented Tony. It would be naive of us to assume that the business